


it's always half and never whole

by wonderwalled



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, why is this my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderwalled/pseuds/wonderwalled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>because in the end louis is not louis and harry is not harry. not without the other one standing there like a guardian, like some sort of twisted angel sitting and waiting to cross a line no one has drawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's always half and never whole

**Author's Note:**

> word count: 12k or so
> 
> disclaimer: ridiculously false.
> 
> this is my first fic and i guess i’m just into that love/hate thing. (it’s proper shit, i know.)

-

“so are you dating taylor, then?” louis asks, sitting in a flat that smells like home when it’s not his home and tapping his fingers on the leather couch. bon iver lyrics ringing in his ears because harry is so fucking indie with his vinyls and shit.

“she thinks so.” harry says quietly, searching the room vacantly with his eyes, trying to ease out this unbalanced energy. trying to cut through it, and find some middle ground where this can feel normal again. 

because they haven’t spent any real time together in months. they don’t cling anymore, like lost kids. they don’t hold on to one another and try to grasp the other when it’s late. they’re separate people, they’re individuals. they look at each other with empty eyes.

and that isn’t fair. it isn’t okay. but fame’s got it’s hold on them now. they’re not just kids. they’re grown ups with shit to do and places to be and planes to catch and that’s just how it is. they’ve got to do what needs to be done and the time slips by without any warning.

“how’s the sex?” 

“fucking bs. and i don’t think she’s ever blown a guy before.” louis smiles but doesn’t laugh, mainly because he’s so tired and partly because it’s all flooding in again and he really does miss this.

and he’s sitting on this couch where they kissed, where they would lay for what felt like days and he thinks, wow, it’s a shame that’s over. because it was nice. it really was.

-

two days later harry’s at his door with a drunk eleanor and he’s got this look like “get this thing off of me” and louis wants to laugh because harry’s never liked eleanor and its always been that way and it always will be.

he thanks harry for bringing her over and harry shrugs and prys her arm off of his, mutters a “no problem” and watches eleanor fall on the couch, sloppy and sloshed, completely fucking obnoxious, truly.

“she’s pretty wasted. sorry.” harry says, cocky, and nonchalant, and louis wants to follow him home because he doesn’t love eleanor.

(and maybe because that sorry carries things that have way too much to do with the past and not so much to do with eleanor after all.)

-

“harry and louis stand over there. have to do wardrobe for you guys, interview in five” louis mentally tracks the words flying out of God knows who’s mouth and he follows voices, tries to grasp sounds and places. the world is moving fast, too fast, but it’s his world and he’s used to it.

he’s used to jet lag and headaches and autographs and photographs with screaming girls in carrot costumes. he’s used to liam and his bossiness, and niall always swearing and zayn being a whiny bitch. and he’s used to fucking harry styles, the whirlwind.

he's used to this being too much and louis’ seen too much, done too much, to be only, fuck, is he twenty-one already?

louis is used to harry being a liar and diabolically ruthless. he’s got harry’s each and every word programmed in his little personal dictionary, and he listens. he sees the childishness and the loud laughing and the bad jokes disappearing into what was once the best life imaginable. 

and he misses it. he does miss it. he misses giggling, and cherub smiles. he does. but it’s been stolen by camera flashes and white lines. and that’s that.

-

it’s not like louis has a problem with pills. he likes pills and he takes a lot of them, but it’s not a problem. it’s not like harry and his vodka or zayn and his death sticks. it’s just to get him by. uppers to get him out of bed. painkillers to make him nice. sleeping pills to do their job. simple, really. 

he was called "popper" all through secondary because of it. not in a bad way, but in an identifying way. that's just who he was. and he was wrapped up in them. (but he wasn't a junkie until he got too famous. until he fell into a spiralling pit of addiction that every celebrity seems to fall into.)

but the pills are just a thing. his thing.

he started them at fifteen to get him through secondary, and as stress built up he took more. and with even more stress and travelling and sleeplessness he ended up taking enough that he didn’t have to think about it anymore. but it isn’t a problem. it’s just a thing. 

what pills he takes, he doesn’t know. he doesn’t really read labels. but it’s alright, because it’s not a problem. no one knows and no one needs to. and that’s okay. 

-

louis never loved harry. he said he did. but he never really did. he did, however, really like him. especially when he was faded and clingy, singing to indie music and spilling secrets. louis really, really, liked that.

they’re both faded, at a house party somewhere in london and caroline flack has recently walked by and harry’s laughing, hard, because he really did like caroline. he liked her enough to try. he liked her because she was confident. and bright. she was willing to take control and she was something, she made something out of herself. she was everything louis wasn’t, isn’t, and everything he can’t find it in himself to be. 

and louis was really quite glad it didn’t last. he wanted harry then. he did not love him, but he really did want him. he wanted him to be his and he wasn’t, he never fucking was, really, and he needed him to be. needs him to be still, even when it’s not right or fair or good for him in the slightest. 

harry grabs louis by the arm and they do shots that taste more like rubbing alcohol than liquor and someone says something and they all laugh even though it wasn’t funny. harry’s too drunk to understand why his hand is running over louis’ hips and they're both high, because harry needs it. and because louis can’t sit here and do this to himself without a valid excuse. (and well, he kind of needs it too)

-

louis wakes up alone and he’s quite thankful for that. he is, because he does have a girlfriend who may be dumb but she treats him right. she drags him out of clubs when he gets too drunk and she makes him yorkshire on sundays if he’s home. 

in fact, he's quite glad he didn't sleep with harry. 

the first time they had sex was one night after a show, at least 3am and they were tired. they were fucking exhausted, and high on the energy and adrenaline of feeling new, feeling important. they were fucking sky high, bright futures and new singles and becoming something, being someone. it was a good feeling. it was really good. and it was all in the way they kissed, sharp tongues and teeth, mark after mark and scratching and discovery. realisation. 

harry kissed him like he meant it when they finished, and louis felt like he meant it but they both knew harry didn’t mean it. harry is not soft. he is no naive baby. even if then it seemed like it, even if he looked like the old harry, he wasn’t. he isn’t. and he will never be old harry again. louis knows harry doesn’t mean it. he never has.

-

louis is beginning to believe they were never meant to be together. they were meant to crash and burn and end in a flame of angst and colours and anger. 

they were lonely. loneliness is one of those emotions that can fuel things, mess with your mind. it can push you, headfirst into something you don’t understand, fight with you until it’s got you begging for something. anything, to pull you from the floor.

loneliness was why louis touched harry at all when they met, why he clung the way he did. why they were so fucking close, why it was so easy. why they attached. because they were lonely and they fit each others emptyness and it worked out. it was good, easy, for a while. it kept them stable while the world grew bigger each day. it was constant feeling of security. and that was okay.

but they fought the whole time they were “together” and they fight now. and it’s not the loud, smashing the tables kind of fights, no. not always. most of the time it’s silent. it’s glares and it’s anger, bubbling at the surface and slowly cracking them to pieces until they’re shattered.

it’s a constant battle, pushing and pulling until they’re broken and messy, all pissed off and acting like fucking kids, and they are kids, and they forget that sometimes. they’re both just kids who grew up too fast and did it together.

and in the end, it utterly destroyed them.

-

"so you and taylor broke up then?" 

"we were never together." 

"are you okay?” louis asks like he thinks harry cared about taylor and they both know she was only there to pass the time. 

“it was just like every other, fucking useless.” and louis feels tears in his eyes. and maybe if this was a movie or a book he’d say something like “was i useless” but he knows the answer and he’s not that brave. and this isn’t a movie. it isn’t a book. it’s real and he can feel that. and in movies and books people step up and they say what needs to be said and louis can’t do that. 

“yeah, i guess.” louis shrugs and goes to the kettle, and harry watches him like he’s a piece of china and if he is even touched he’ll shatter. 

“i mean, most of them. but like, i mean, i learned a lot.” he almost looks hopeful, and louis wants him to stop. he wants him to face up to his idiocy. and he wants him to embrace the fact that he’s a fucking prick. he wants to wipe the hope off his face because he loves to see him broken. 

“i think that maybe if you weren’t always fucked up, you could make time for it,” louis says, sharp, like a knife. like the one he wishes he could shove into harry’s back the way he did him.

“i don’t even know how to date people. i mean, you’ve been with eleanor for like a year and a half, yeah? how does that-”

“harry, you’re only nineteen.” louis stares at the tea in his cup and he doesn’t know if he should apologise or walk out or what.

he never knows what to say, or how to say it. he doesn’t have answers to all the questions and he doesn’t know how to handle what gets thrown at him.

“but my life is already over. and i haven’t found love. and i’m going to die this way.” he says, all dramatic. desperate. pathetic.

louis deadpans, looking at this fucker like he deserves to be looked at. looking at him like no one else has the balls to. because this is harry styles, and heaven fucking forbid you treat him how he should be treated. heaven fucking forbid someone makes him feel like shit for once.

heaven forbid he isn’t put on a pedestal by every person in his life. and louis knows everyone treats him like a king, and he deserves to be treated like one sometimes. he does. because he’s talented and smart and interesting and he knows how to handle fame and people and money. but louis also knows the inner depths of everything harry is. he knows the evil behind his eyes and the anger that bubbles on the surface.

he knows the late nights and monotonous crying at 3am and he knows the way harry’s eyes get cold when he’s drunk. he knows the pure fucking hatred that lies in him, and he understands it. he is attracted to it, drawn to it. but he knows he can’t let harry know that. he has to give him shit for being the way he is because no one else does.

“i wish you’d stop acting like you have any right to be miserable. you do this to yourself." and louis feels like he deserves a medal because no one tells harry that. no one. and harry looks at him like he is something different, and extraordinary. like he could move mountains.

“i’m sorry.” harry says, staring into louis’ eyes as if he’s trying to read every emotion in them. as if he could decipher those waves of blue and green and endless confusion and everything louis is. 

but he can, and louis knows that. louis knows he’s cut open for harry to see every aspect of who he is. he knows that harry can tell how he feels and why and he feels connected, put together. like he has this to rely on, this utter understanding they have. like. he’s okay with this, most of the time. he’s okay with fighting because he knows he has someone to pick up the pieces of him and put him back to one again and he knows that harry will always know what to do.

“i’m..” louis replies. tries to at least. he sets his cuppa on the counter with trembling fingers and tries to breathe. in out, in out. 

"you don't really have to leave." harry mutters and louis just sighs, kind of in content way. like hes really fuckng happy that harry wants him to stay. harry wants him to drink tea and watch sitcoms and be friends. be real. he wants them back and louis wants them back and he wants to stay. he really, really, wants to stay.

but he leaves.

-

it’s after a show in new york, and harry and louis and zayn and liam and niall are sitting in a car in traffic that seems endless and they’re listening to, like, nirvana and all that. and harry has his arm around louis and louid holds onto it.

he can’t ask for any more, can’t expect any more. he can’t want more than a late night car ride intertwined in ink marred arms because he doesn’t get to have that anymore.

they're going back to their hotel and its late, really late. harry's high and louis' pretending not to notice and louis’ fucked up out of his mind and harry’s pretending not to notice. zayn and liam and niall are laughing really loud and arguing in a giggly way and it feels normal. it feels homey, even. it feels like 2010 in a cramped, dirty bedroom trying to rehearse in between shots of cheap liquor. 

but harry’s heartbeat and his hand moving against louis’ feels kind of like music, like an orchestra playing a set that was never meant to end.

\- 

“have you been drinking?” louis asks and harry is standing in his living room, dripping wet wearing nothing but a v-neck and his tightest jeans and louis feels it all sink in. like yeah, you’ve been drinking. and that’s okay. 

it’s okay, because louis fucking gets it. he feels that, he feels it ring into every bone, every nerve. 

“it’s funny, lou. you could drink every bottle in there, and it won’t take the pain away.” he stands too, too close to louis and he doesn’t touch him, he doesn’t touch him. 

louis doesn’t want him to touch him, and he doesn’t want to feel his cold hands and breathe in the night on his skin. he wants him to leave, he swears to every higher power that he wants him to go.

but harry doesn’t go, no. he stays so, so close. and he gets closer. he always gets closer. and his lips taste like vodka, because he always did quite like vodka. and his eyes look like a broken piece of something that used to be beautiful.

louis wants to tell him he wishes this could be what it was before. and that there’s nothing like this, nothing like them. nothing like his hips against harry’s hips and there’s nothing like the way that he feels right now. but he can’t tell him those things. and he won’t tell him those things. 

“do you still love me? like you said.”

“you mean when you left?” louis says, and it’s supposed to come out defiant like this strong person he’s trying to be but it comes out like a nine year old sitting at a table with the dad that ditched him. and that fucking hurts like hell.

“yeah, when i left.” 

“well, i mean.” louis ducks out from under harry’s arm and breaks this look that really he didn’t want to break. “like, you’re my best friend. you were." louis kind of wishes he hadn’t spoken. wishes he hadn’t met him. but harry won’t remember a damn thing tomorrow anyway.

“i didn’t mean it.” harry says, and slams his fist on the wall. louis flinches into himself. and he feels really small, vulnerable. like he’s powerless. and he is. “i didn’t." 

“you did.” and there’s nothing but the silence and the air of this cold, stupid flat. this flat that louis can’t call home except he can because harry is here and harry is home.

he doesn’t want him to be, but he just is.

“i’m still here for you. ‘know i drink too much.” he turns and looks at louis like the world is on fire. louis thinks right now he probably wouldnt notice if it was.

he moves closer. "i fucked our friendship up, i get that." closer. “that’s my fault. that’s on me.” 

louis’ back is to the wall. harry’s arms are trapping him. and he doesn’t breathe, he can’t breathe. louis can taste the whiskey on his breath, and he's aching. aching for more of harry, for more pills, for something that isn't this because this fucking sucks. 

“i wish i could give you what you deserve.” 

and harry leaves, just like that. just like the wind does, and like the rain does, and like his dad did. and just like with all of those things, louis wants to follow him. but he doesn’t. 

-

“so how’s eleanor?” zayn mutters around a cigarette, staring out at whatever ocean it is they’re stood next to, and louis can’t help but laugh. not in the, “that was funny” way, but more in that exasperated way that makes you feel bad for yourself. the kind of laugh that makes you second guess your sanity.

“you know, to be honest we don’t talk much. she’s always wanting to go places, which is dumb, i mean right? you and perrie just sit around and get high and, like, dye each others hair." louis skips a rock (is that what it's called?) across the ocean that looks black and scary. and endless. "she doesn’t even let me touch her hair.” 

“she probably doesn’t want to fall in love with someone who’s in love with someone else, mate.” zayn says, flicking little flickers of orange that light up the world for a split second, and louis doesn’t want to believe that. 

they stand there like that for a while, maybe even too long, before zayn walks back to the hotel and leaves louis alone to feel like absolute shit for doing not a damned thing wrong.

and zayn has a way of making it feel like louis’ responsible, like it’s up to him to fix what’s wrong. like it’s his obligation. and it isn’t, it shouldn’t be. 

louis watches as the night gets blacker and tries to remember his locker combinations from secondary and he breathes. he breathes and he counts to sixty two and he walks back, slow. fifty four steps, he counts. fifty four steps to release, found in a prescription bottle with a name that doesn’t resemble his own.  
-

“so you and el are done then?” harry asks, leans forward and passes louis a spliff in his hotel room somewhere in california, wearing nothing but sweatpants 'cause they just had a concert and they’re really really sick of all those fuckin’ concerts. 

louis takes a drag and it feels good, better than eleanor ever felt, but nowhere near harry’s whiskey flavoured tongue when it’s late and louis’ got percs in his system. lot’s of percs. nowhere close, nothing like the way fast paced blowjobs feel when they’re flying over the atlantic. it’s not enough to feel like that does. but it's good, nonetheless.

“yeah, ‘called her this afternoon. shes pissed, i guess. but i don't think she really cares that much.” louis blows smoke up into the air, closes his eyes. let’s his head fall back onto the wall and holds the joint out. 

he feels it leave his hand and hears a laugh that sounds kind of like red wine. “just like that, yeah?” he smiles around the j and shakes his head like he can’t believe it. “you pissed away a year and a half on that girl. for that.”

“yeah, that. and bad sex.” they both laugh softly, sighing in sync like all best friends do. fueling more laughter, quiet giggling where no sound comes out but you can rather feel it.

“was she really that bad?”

“i don’t know, harry. maybe i’m just gay.” and it doesn’t get silent like in the movies, because they both already knew that.

(they've fucked enough times to figure that out.)

harry shotguns the last drag past louis' lips and louis remembers the first time they smoked together, the first time they kissed, the start of this shit and he wishes it never happened. kind of. (but not really.)

“you know what, it doesn’t fucking matter though man, you can do whatever you want.” harry reaches over for his soda and drops in the joint before it burns his fingertips. “that’s what i always did.” 

“that must be nice to be so confident.” louis snaps and harry doesn’t know what to say to that, because he can’t make louis feel any more comfortable with this. because he doesn’t want to admit that he's not like everyone else. that he's not what everyone wanted him to be.

because he grew up with a homophobic dad and when he kissed a boy in sixth year that dad beat the living shit out of him and harry knows that, harry has always known that because louis told him, and only him. and you don’t just forget stuff like that.

harry knows that louis brought bruises to show-and-tell throughout primary school and he knows that louis is still afraid of his father after all the time they've spent seperated from one another. harry knows that scars on his skin have the origin of fathers hand. ad even more scares stemmed from the self hatred grown out of that seperation. and it hurts harry, so much that he can't imagine the pain louis must carry on his shoulders.

“i’m gonna run and get my pipe, yeah? we can like, talk about old times and shit.” he gets up and he leaves the door wide open so he has to walk back in. because he can’t ditch louis right now when he knows he’s a fucking wreck. he can't be a coward and run. not when there's something more important, more beautiful than anything else waiting for him to return.

“do you have anything?” louis yells out toward the door and harry comes back with a green and blue pipe and three little white pills, sighing at his inability to resist giving louis everything he wants.

“vics? do i look twelve?” louis raises an eyebrow because of all people, harry knows this game. harry knows what should be used when. how emotions play the part in the substance, the way the world spins slower or faster depending on the pill he places on his tongue. 

“i’m not gonna be responsible for you doing anything worse, ‘kay?” harry lights the pipe and watches as louis shrugs, takes in three little white pills that he loves more than anything else.

three pills that mean more to him than sunrises and bubblebaths. more than all the stars and the moon and the sun. everything that means anything to anyone else is stored into those pills.

harry forces himself to look away.

-

louis wakes up to shower water running and singing, some killers song about pictures and telephones and he feels kind of like, amazing. 

louis checks his phone and eleanor texted him twice, not 'cause she misses him or anything, of course. eleanor doesn’t miss him, she wants all her stuff from his flat. all her shoes he bought her. all of her topshop clothes and her fucking hair ties. she never gave a shit about him in the first place. 

is that what love is? is love trying to make it through day after day without feeling? without mutual understanding and neglection of things that matter most?

no, he decides, that’s not love. love is the burning feeling of i fucking hate you that he feels when he looks at harry when he’s wasted. love is feeling dangerous, and possessive, and murderous. over a person. louis doesn’t want to be that way, but he has to be because he would carry out murder for a nineteen year old kid addicted to cocaine and vodka.

he’s obsessed, fucking hypnotized. and he’s watching, watching every move harry makes and catching on. letting his words rattle through his brain for days on end, staying up until the sunrise to try to understand what is happening in harry’s head.

“you okay, man?” harry throws a wet towel into louis’ lap and starts to put on clothes so they can go lie their asses off in another interview or whatever the fuck it is they’re doing today. 

but instead louis sits up onto his knees and pulls harry down onto him, almost naked, pressing their sober lips together like the world end if they don’t. 

“what the bloody hell are you doing?” harry mumbles against louis’ lips and laughs against them, too. laughs in that soft, throaty, way that makes the fucking earth stop spinning. 

“whatever the bloody hell you want me to do.” he pulls him back against his chest and harry bites louis’ lip and it feels like, like he’s high again. except it feels better than that.

“do you honestly think it’s a good idea to fuck five minutes before we need to be downstairs?”

“fuck that.” louis barely mumbles around harry’s tongue and harry thinks wow, and harry grinds his his hips down and louis thinks wow. holy fucking shit, harry styles. that’s what it feels like, at least. 

“lou.” harry breaks away, and comes back, and goes away, like he’s trying to decide what to do next and where to go and what to say. “louis, stop.” 

“what?” louis says like he’s five and his favourite toy is lost and he’s alone and he doesn’t know who he is. 

“i’m not gonna do this again, with you.” and he leaves. and that? that feels like every nerve in louis’ body’s on fire. 

-

“liam’s gonna chew your ass out.” niall says, shoving another fucking crisp in his mouth because it’s totally necessary to eat all the fucking time and it’s totally necessary for liam to chew him out for being two minutes late and it’s one hundred and fifty percent necessary to be so damn annoying all the fucking time. 

harry’s playing with his hands in the corner and louis thinks, let him, let him feel like shit. let him leave me and be miserable because of it. 

all harry does is leave. hes a runner. he runs away from all his problems. he deserves fucking misery and louis can't give it to him.

but louis really is more pissed off than he’s been in maybe a year, and he’s hating everyone in this stupid ass band because he can, and he wants to. and he will.

but instead of being a prick, he just smiles like the sun is shining out his ass and acts like he’s fine. laughs when he knows he’s supposed to. he’s pretty good at that now. he’s had a lot of practice.

and louis does not lose. he never loses. he's experienced loss, and he knows it. he is accustomed to it. but he doesn't like it. doesn't quite appreciate it's presence in his life.

louis is not one to be beat. he's the one who will sacrifice things dear to him to gain something.

when his dad left, he gave up his happiness and drowned himself in thoughts of bringing him back. he immersed himself in fixing his family, putting pieces together. despite the fact that he was miserable the whole time his father was still around. 

he blamed himself for the state his mother was in, the emptiness that echoed through the halls of his home. and he still blames himself, for that. for the tragedies, the loss. he pushes himself to fix what goes wrong.

and this is not going to be an exception. he refuses to lose when hes so close. and he knows harry's weaknesses. the ways to make him squirm and shake. fall over, begging on his knees for him to come closer.

he knows how to do that and he will do that. he'll take their relationship to levels harry didn't know existed because he wants to and he is in control. and he wants to remain that way.

-

louis realises at 3am that morning that he’s quite past the point of addicted to little white pills. and he can't find it in him to care all that much.

-

he’s not even drunk. he’s fucking plastered. it’s two thirty in the morning and that’s when london really comes alive, that’s when it feels like your veins are pulsing with energy and it feels fucking amazing.

he sees zayn out on the balcony of this house’s second story and yells his name, adds a “mate! how you feelin?” and he laughs 'cause he never gets drunk enough to feel like this. never has the audactiy to lose himself like he is.

“hey, man, you alright?” zayn laughs nervously but he’s kind of relieved because louis’ been a walking time bomb for at least 36 hours now and zayn doesn’t want to be the one to pull the pin.

everyone's been watching him with careful eyes as he crosses rooms with this sharp edge, with loud steps and echoing fucking silence. cold, empty stares and everything. and everyone's been waiting for a crack.

“yeah." he smiles, in a convincing way so that zayn doesn't look so damned scared.

"can i have one?” he points to the pack of cigs zayn’s got in his hand, and he’s looking at him like what the fuck? and louis just raises his eyebrows and holds out his hand, thirsting for the burn of something poisonous. something that could destroy him if he let it. 

“you don’t smoke mate.” zayn stares at him with eyes asking questions louis doesn’t wanna answer.

“i do when i’m drunk.” louis says and slides a cig out of the pack and lights it, lets the air and the poison race each other to his lungs.

“what happened?” zayn asks and he closes the door because he wants louis to talk and that’s that. (zayn just has a way of knowing how to get people to spill their hearts out on the table for him, really)

“i don’t know.”

“you broke up with eleanor right? i thought you would talk to harry and, like work it out or somethin’.” he leans against the railing and lets a flame light up a little white stick he’s far too addicted to for his own good.

and then louis kind of realises that everyone has an addiction. everyone he knows. and everyone he knows is fucking falling apart. just like him.

this whole bloody world, its a disaster. and hes at the epicenter. and he knows that he deserves to be here but does everyone else? did they do all the things he did to earn this?

he decides that yeah, they probably did.

“yeah, we were like this close to fucking right? and he walked out.” louis shakes his head and takes a drag and lets his head kind of clear, like he’s getting over an illness or something.

“typical harry, that.” zayn blows his smoke into the night and louis feels quite fucking murderous. 

“don’t say that.” louis says with measure, and care, and poise. because a ticking time bomb has to pick the perfect time to blow. it has to have control.

he has to pick a time that sets off the most people and changes the most mindsets. he has to be careful, and willful, and he has to stay calm until he can do real damage.

“louis, he fucks people over. it’s like a hobby or something.”

“i’m not just another person to him, am i? ” louis turns to him like he’s confronting him on something bigger than themselves. which may be exactly what he’s doing. “you don’t know anything that he’s done. for me.”

“nooooo,” zayn drags out, “but mate, he’s a wreck. you want better than that for yourself, don’t you?” 

“no, i dont.” louis grinds his cigarette into the ground and turns back to the house, shaking with anticipation and intent. he grabs harry by his little black v-neck in one hand and an empty moscato bottle with the other.

this is his idea of bringing the world to his knees and if theres anything hes good at, its that. by the morning, harry will be drooling, a mess, asking for more and telling louis how sorry he is.

(louis wonders if then he'll be satisfied. probably not.) 

“spin the bottle." he says into someone's (aiden's?) ear and suddenly everyone knows because things spread in places like these. and they're in a circle and louis is really fucking good at spinning the bottle the direction he wants it to spin.

and he’s fucked up. and harry’s really fucked up. and he feels like he might win this time. this is what he was made to do.

-

“whoa.” harry mutters against louis’ lips, uv flavoured like his own. 

louis’ in his lap, and he grinds his hips down and harry actually moans, moans, and it’s like, really fucking loud and people whistle and niall says something like “slow down jesus" and louis takes a hand out of harry's hair to hold up a middle finger.

he pulls away to look into eyes he thinks look quite pretty, honestly, and leans back in and bites a pink lip, flushed and kiss-swollen. he pulls back and smiles because harry looks, like, beautiful. because in the end, louis is not louis and harry is not harry. not without the other one standing there like a guardian, like some sort of twisted angel sitting and waiting to cross a line no one has drawn. 

and louis sees in harry’s eyes what he knows lies in his own; murderous, dangerous, blood red love.

-

"i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry." harry pants, like a dog or something, throwing clothes in all corners of this room, touching and reaching and trying to find some part of louis to hold onto.

louis is smiling, letting everything fall into place. watching as harry crumbles to pieces, straddling louis and opening himself up, showing louis how fucking much he's missed him.

louis feels fucking euphoric, letting the scene sink in. and harry lines louis' dick up with his ass and he's riding him, fast and messy, like he could only dream of.

"fuck, fuck, fuck, oh my god lou" harry is bouncing up and down, hair covering his face and louis' as he battles louis' tongue with his own.

it's every moment of months past culminating and they're finding the contours they used to hold on to every night and it's exactly what they needed it to be.

-

there’s a fair amount of secrecy when you’re a celebrity and you make out with your best friend around a lot of other celebrities. and they were all drunk anyway. and it was a game of spin the bloody bottle. at least that’s what it was supposed to be, what it was. no one speaks a word about it. no one even cares about what's behind the whole louisandharry thing. its easy to give up on something that keeps failing. 

louis' sitting up in bed the next morning, completely naked with an actual mop of fucking brown curly hair on his stomach. arms that could ruin him, skin that is soft and rough and strong. he’s got something fucking extraordinary lying in front of his eyes and he wants to embrace it and never forget how it feels.

he wants to relive winning him over, wants to relish in the victorious feeling of bruises.

“shit, baby.” harry presses into louis, wincing at all the marks on his neck. "i missed you."

louis tosses his phone on the floor and giggles, like a fucking two year old girl, and harry pulls him over him and they fuck, like they really mean it. even if they don’t.

-

“you got fucked, didn’t you.” zayn stares, like harry is going to be ashamed or something. like he's supposed the shy away.

“none of your business, mate.” harry says slowly, and quietly, looking over to louis sitting across the house on the couch even though zayn doesn’t know louis’ there and he doesn’t know louis can hear and neither one of them try to change it.

“were you fucked up?”

harry stares straight through his tired brown eyes filled with anger. and fire. stares as if words aren't going to hurt. but of course they will.

“did you even feel it?” 

harry sets his mug down on the counter and leans forward.

“look, zayn. why do you assume i’m the only one fucking around here? i’m not the only one with a problem, and i don't think you want to know anything about this. so back the fuck off it.”

they sit there in silence for a good minute or two and zayn stares into his earl grey.

“lou? no.” zayn shakes his head like it’s hard to believe louis is as crazy as harry is. but he is. and they all know it. and no one knows how to say it.

-

“it’s half two in the fucking morning, louis.” he hears from behind a closed door and his hands start to shake and he starts to smile and he can’t figure out why. he remembers his therapist said the hand shaking has to do with anxiety. he was about fifteen when she said that. (he started to pop pills two weeks later.)

“open the door, fucker!" louis yells and harry swings it open and his nose is bleeding and well, louis gets that. he does. harry turns back to the kitchen and cleans himself up and then louis is against him and they’re kissing and they just can’t stop. they need it. they need this.

even if it’s not what really should be, it’s going to be. and that’s that.

“you fucked up?” louis mumbles against cold lips and harry shakes his head with eyes glassed over.

“no.” he gets closer, “you?”

“no.” he rolls his hips against harry’s and it feels so natural. like he was made to do this. this is just easy, and he knows how to do it. 

“you’re lying.” 

“no.”

“can’t lie to a liar, love.”

“guess not.” louis shrugs and drags him to the couch and he doesn’t remember much else. and that’s kind of when it becomes a problem.

-

it’s half two on a sunday afternoon and they’re sitting in a really small room with more than seventeen people crowded, pushing, because no one ever stops pushing.

it’s loud. fucking piercing loud, really. like the kind that has you shaking your head trying to force all the noise out. 

and the sad part is it’s nothing new, nothing strange. it’s everyday. and it’s bloody horrible.

louis stares at nicholas goddamn grimshaw, with that stupid smile plastered on his face, like he can just fucking take harry. like harry was his territory or some shit. 

he always does this. takes him out and gets him high, shows him new music and gets him tickets to underground shows. makes harry positively melt because he's new and spontaneous.

louis’ almost terrified with himself, truly, because this whole nick grimshaw thing is nothing new either and harry really, really, loves the guy but louis still wouldn’t mind spilling his blood.

kind of frightening, really.

but also kind of enticing. a bit self-satisfying. it makes louis’ eyes narrow and heart slow. it makes him feel better, even. like he’s above everyone else because he knows he could destroy nick grimshaw if he tried.

he could rip him to shreds, figuratively or literally, and he is proud, so fucking proud of that. 

-

they’re together. kind of. 

niall says so, pouring another fucking pint because he is such a true irishman or what the fuck ever. 

louis doesn’t care about it anymore though. this is his whole life. he doesn’t give a shit about public persona. he doesn’t want to, at least. he knows it comes first before a lot of things, his image. keeping himself presentable as what he’s supposed to be. perfect enough to draw everyone’s attention.

but in the end his best friend is a bottle of pills and he’s in love, or something like it, with a zombie on cocaine and vodka. 

he’s fucked, and he knows that. he knows he’s got to balance, got to keep a grip. got to call his mum once a week at the least and buy daisy and phoebe birthday presents from the us because he’s not home to see them grow up.

and that’d be fine if he was doing what he intended on doing with his pathetic life. if he had been a traveller, a writer or something. if he’d been a painter. played piano in the finest cities on the earth. but he’s not doing that. he’s a boy band member and one of the most popular in all time. and he can’t change that.

he can’t fucking balance that. he can’t even fathom it, or put into words how fucking scared he is of it. he can't manage being so frightened to open his eyes to another day. and he can’t put any of it together like he’s supposed to be able to. he can’t do it the right way, and nothing is matching up. and it wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

niall looks at louis like he’s cracking, pushing, bursting. and he is. he really is.

-

“eleanor called me today.” louis mutters and throws a cigarette over the side of the rooftop. he has to force himself not to light another right away. counts to ten. three times.

“yeah?” 

“yeah.” louis nods his head and tries to stop his hands from shaking. one, two, three, four, five. “says she wants to get back together.” six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

“i’m sure she misses you terribly." harry mutters, pissed the fuck off and a bit terrified because louis may leave. he may choose what he's supposed to choose. louis wants to be able to choose eleanor, too. he wants to be able to ditch the fake relationship he’s made in his head with harry. he wants to drop the act and walk away. leave it the way it should’ve been.

"sounds like that." 

"when'd you pick up smoking?"

"stop changing the subject."

"just a question."

"none of your business."

"i think your wellbeing is plenty my business."

"it wasn't when you left me."

he does not mean for that to come out. he didn't. except he did and he knows it. he knows he wants to say what hurts harry most. he just has this thing for making harry angry. he loves the way it feels to stab him in the back and make him feel like shit. he loves treating harry like harry treats him and theres nothing really unethical about that. is there? there’s nothing wrong with being fair.

"i did that for your good." harry says, like he’s superior or whatever. like he does all the things he does for louis. like he wants the best for him. and louis isn’t refusing to believe that because he’s mad or hurt or anything. he refuses to believe it because it isn’t true. it isn’t true and it won’t be just because harry says so.

"bullshit."

"its not. i shouldn't have even came near you again. its bad for you. i make things worse for you, worse than they-"

louis walks toward harry with purpose and harry stops speaking to watch and see if this is where louis will shatter, if this is finally where he’ll fall in on himself. but he won’t because he’s fucking better than that.

"don't ever, ever, pity me. i don't want your pity."

"you need help, louis." 

"and you're a fucking hypocrite."

louis is sure he stopped breathing a while back and he needs to go. go far away and hum himself to sleep and stop feeling. he needs to get hit by a car, or fall really far down. he needs to be woken up, in a bigger way than cold water at 6am. he needs to feel something because this feels fucking horrible.

"you don't get to tell me i need help." 

harry stares at him with hazy eyes and louis stares back with sharp eyes and they are opposites. they are the exact things the other does not have. they fit each of each others weaknesses with strengths and it doesn’t feel wrong. it feels scary and dangerous but it isn’t wrong. 

but it isn’t right, either. 

it's somewhere between heaven and hell. somewhere between wanting him and hating him. something that hurts, in a fucking beautiful way. something that scares him, really fucking scares them.

because its bigger than them, bigger and stronger and its going to tear them apart and its not going to stop until theyre both far away and dead and gone and used to the point of no return.

-

“fuck.” he moans and harry’s mouth is on his dick and they’re in a storage closet, a fucking storage closet, like this is a tv show or something. 

“shut up, someone’s gonna come in.” harry mutters, and louis can't fucking breathe because harry seems to have absolutely no fucking gag reflex and he’s so happy, so so so happy. he’s fucking blissful, if he wants to use his extensive vocabulary. 

“fuuuuuuck.” he moans again, louder, like he wants to get caught, and maybe he does. maybe he wants to fuck things up and make a scene. change the energy and let it all sink in around him, standing at the epicenter of what he can’t and won’t control. 

he wants to have the world crash down and then live in it. and the thought scares him. 

harry tries not to laugh, and he fails but it’s okay ‘cause louis’ about to cum from the vibrations and there’s lots of noise outside the door and louis feels rebellious. he feels like he’s crossing lines, and it feels good.

-

“why are you with him?” eleanor asks with feet propped up on louis’ coffee table, this look of fucking disgust on her face. 

“he makes me happy.” louis lies, handing her a mug of her favourite tea because he’s a good person. a nice person, with a kind heart and wants to make people feel better. even when they’re criticizing him for the choices he makes. 

“he doesn’t.”

“well, neither did you.” louis raises his eyebrows and props his feet next to hers.

and he isn’t lying, really. because eleanor did care, kind of, in her warped way. she did do the right things by him and she was faithful, as far as louis knows, while he was across the world and when he was still fucking harry the first few months they knew each other. she was good to him, in a weird way. in a way most people don’t know how to be. but she didn’t make his nerve endings turn to flames. she didn’t make him feel different or powerful. she didn’t give him the satisfaction of rebellion and she didn’t change his life. she didn’t teach him new things or make him a different person. she was always there as a stand in to make him feel like he was doing the right thing and he was never taking risks. never pushing limits. never moving forward.

she doesn’t blink, just smiles. and louis does have to admit that he does quite love that invincibility she has. it’s admirable. louis lusts for it. he adores how she holds her ground. how she isn’t afraid. 

“maybe not.” her eyes narrow. “but i didn’t really make you miserable, did i?”

“no.” louis sighs and rolls his eyes. “eleanor, i’m gay.”

“well, obviously.” she laughs. ‘i’m not dense.”

“really?” he smiles and she does too and it’s genuine, like they’re friends or something. like they ever really knew each other at all. 

“he’s going to ruin you.” she sets her tea down and grabs her bag. “you love him too much.” she sighs and walks out and louis feels like that was their goodbye, or something. like that was it. and it all feels kind of, real.

-

 

it’s been three weeks since spin the bottle, and it’s starting to get a bit poetic.

harry’s been getting worse, they’ve been fighting and that. there’s no fixing it, louis decides, with some self-assurance that he isn’t capable of doing anything about this so he won’t. like it’s not his responsibility and he’s turning into harry, for Christ’s sake.

it’s like. like when you’re seven, on your first trip to disneyland. you’re young. you feel important. because these people in character costumes tell you you’re important so therefore, you are. you’re smart, and strong. really strong. stronger than captain hook because you arm wrestled him and he lost. you’re the king, the winner. you feel like you’re the best kid in the world and everyone adores you.

but you get back on the plane and you walk into your bedroom and mom and dad are fighting again and you’re left alone with colouring books and memories and you realise you’re not all that important, really. you’re just you. you’re just a kid, just like all the other kids. you are worth nothing and you have nothing to give. 

that’s what harry feels like. that’s what harry feels like when he’s pulsing through louis’ veins. that’s what it feels like a six am in a crowded room, and at nine when millions of girls yell his lyrics at him, and how it feels when he gets back to an empty flat and random excuses and a i’m sorry that’s so fake that it physically hurts. 

like. louis is trying. he says he’s trying, he tells them all he’s trying. he may not be, but he says he is. because people want to hear that. and he gives the people what they ask for. he has learned throughout his journeys with fame that he’s supposed to please the audience. and whether that audience is 30 million americans or his best friends, he still has to please them.

he wishes he could not give a shit and tell them to fuck off. he wants to be better than what this world has made him. he wants that so bad. he wants it, he wants it, he wants it. but it’s not his to have.

-

harry’s singing a solo, loud and passionate, so real that it’s unfathomable, really.

it’s late, late enough that they shouldn’t really be in rehearsals, but louis’ accustomed to this life because it’s not like it’s going anywhere. so he listens.

harry’s a good writer. okay, good is weak. he’s a marvelous writer. he pretends like he doesn’t know it, but louis can see that it makes him proud when people tell him so. he likes to hear good things about himself. he relishes in them. and he deserves to, really. he does. he’s proud of the few things that are his. and louis thinks thats good. 

he wants to give harry the things that make him better, he wants to offer him the world even if he doesn’t deserve it.

liam is humming into zayn’s ear, probably one of their little inside jokes and marco is telling them to do things and they aren’t doing them and no one cares anymore, no one wants this anymore.

maybe that’s a lie, because louis can’t imagine a normal life now. after all this. but it’s something about the people watching, that’s what pushes him. it’s having to be disguised picking up milk or having these girls who spend their time following his every move. it’s sitting in a hotel room just waiting for something to happen, for some rumour to go out of it’s context and spread, spread so that it fuels a fire that leads to more publicity.

it’s a game, it’s all a game. it’s a complicated, complex game, but still a game after all. it’s similar, maybe even intertwined, with the game he plays with harry. the games he plays with bottles of pills. he thrives on the push and pull of these forces, tugging on each other until they collapse. 

harry is singing still, singing about his dad of all things. and louis knows that the lyrics are true, true down to the core of each of his bones. into the center of everything harry is, everything harry has accomplished and failed at and everything he says. the mannerisms that look like nerves to everyone else, louis knows they stem from abandonment. from hatred. from pain that most people can’t understand, most people could never even fathom. 

louis knows because he relates, he connects. he fucking gets it, and he knows that harry is thankful for that.

and they hate each other. they hate each other everyday and they fight too much, they hate the sight of the other and whatever they are is always going to feel like hate. always going to full of anger. but they were best friends first for a reason, because they fucking understand.

and louis doesn’t believe in fate because he’s not naive. he’s not a child and he won’t be ever again. but he knows there’s something more to whatever they are and he feels like he positively needs to know what it is. needs to always be one step ahead of this sick game.

-

waking up next to harry isn’t supposed to feel like this. he’s supposed to be happy, all sleepy, rolling over into warm arms. he’s supposed to be in love with him, he’s supposed to adore his every move. like he used to do.

being in love with him, because that’s what louis is, isn’t supposed to feel miserable. he’s supposed to want him there, for more than his own personal gain. he’s supposed to need him for more than a replacement for percocet. it’s not supposed to feel like he’s being deconstructed, torn down layer by layer like he is. that’s not fucking fair. it’s not fair that harry has these friends, lots of fucking hipster ass friends with drugs. it’s not fair that harry goes out and has a good time and leaves louis alone with wine and memories of the wrong things.

louis is staring at a long line of bottles. some are orange and some are white.

he dumps their contents on the cold counter, arranging them into colours. 

the white, the red, then oranges, then the purples. all the colours in between. he looks at them like he looks at his little sisters, in that fond way. the way that just proves love, paints it out for the world to see.

he doesn’t want to do anything stupid or go too far. take a bottle or four. well, he wants to, but he won’t. he’s gotta be somewhere in an hour and he needs to be high to be there.

he’s got himself clawing the counter, counting to a hundred over and over again. forcing the air to make it’s way to his lungs and back out again.

and he hasn’t had a panic attack since he turned seventeen, but he hasn’t forgotten it. he knows what is happening and he’s not afraid. he’s not afraid, because it feels like home.

he feels himself closing in and he tries to hold on to the world, tries to grasp himself. and the air feels rough, sharp. he can taste the salt in his tears and he can hear his breath getting ragged, broken. the atmosphere tastes bitter and he feels lonely, he feels empty. and it’s cold, too cold in this flat and he can’t find himself. he’s slipping.

he hears a noise and he hopes he’s dying but that’s not it. it’s a door, and it’s arms, strong arms. it’s shh and soft mumbling and it’s easy breathing contrasting the uneven pattern of his own. it’s safety, a lifeline. it’s something to grab and cling to. and it’s harry.

“louis, listen to me.” and it’s bubbly, unclear. like he’s underwater.

“i-” he tries, but nothing feels like it’s coming out. nothing is pushing it’s way through his windpipe, forcing it’s way to harry.

“you’re going to be fine. breathe with me.” he searches and he sees eyes and skin and breathes in the scent of the boy he swears to God he’s in love with even if its wrong and even if its all just a lie.

“okay? just breathe. in, out. i’m not leaving.” and louis clutches the last three words like that’s what he needed to make him breathe, to pull him from the trap he’s caught in. 

“don’t go anywhere.” louis struggles between gasps of breath and tears, sobs breaking from his chest like a tsunami tide, pulling him under.

-

“liam, i don’t need this today.”

“for Christ’s sake, liam, shut the fuck up-”

“figure your shit out then!” 

this isn’t out of the ordinary. harry is staring at liam like louis is, fucking annoyed and blatantly pissed off. they’re getting shit, and they’re fucknig always getting shit, from liam. and they’re all in a room too small and louis needs more pills and harry keeps moving and they’re pissed off and crashing and this isn’t fucking fun anymore.

“you two are fucking wrecks and you’re ruining this band.”

and louis doesn’t feel bad for it. he thinks in the deepest part of his selfishness, he wanted to do that all along. he wants to ruin things. break them. he loves to be the one who is standing when everyone else isn’t. and the only way he gets to do that is if he calls the shots. as long as everyone turns to him for direction, for instruction. and they do.

\- 

sick. he’s sick. harry is rubbing his back and fighting tears and he’s so, so fucking sick.

he feels empty. drained. there’s a show in six hours and he’s puking, like really puking, like he hasn’t in years. it’s like a rerun of his sixteenth birthday without the fun part. 

he leans back and takes a drink of water and harry holds his hand, and he mouths the word “breathe” and louis doesn’t hear any sound. his heart is pounding and his head is shaking and he hadn’t realised what it was to detox. 

he tries to remember why he tried it anyway, and fails.

“go get my vic’s, please” he begs, scratchy words and childish tone, all helpless and needy. all the things he swore he’d never be. he feels weak and cold and he needs the pills, can’t do anything without them.

harry looks away to hide the tears threatening to fall, takes a deep breath. louis feels that sink in. lets it etch itself into his mind. 

he knows there’s no going back. harry’s name is carved into his bones, his whole soul dug straight from his chest and placed in harry’s. everything revolves around it. every movement and touch, all the things they do. it all comes back to louisandharry.

that’s a bit melodramatic, maybe. but it’s what louis imagines this feeling like. it’s the state he’s placed himself in, locking himself beneath the earth like some sort of prisoner.

and he could tell you in detail the way the sky darkens just before it falls. he could explain the way the ground shakes before it cracks. 

he could, but he won’t. he’s self-deprecating and terrified, reaching for someone to hold him steady. and harry happens to be there, a majority of the times he needs someone.

“c’mon, vics aren’t bad. it’ll be okay, i just need one. or two. that’s all.” he realises the desperation in his voice and he doesn’t like it. he shudders at the weakness, the emptiness that echoes through this room.

“please, harry.” he begs, crackling, falling apart. 

“i can’t.” harry turns his head with a single line of water cutting down the left side of his less-than-perfect face, his dry cheeks and wintry paleness.

and louis can’t help himself, can’t believe this is what they’ve become. he watches, bewildered. wondering how it ended up like this. it wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

he isn’t supposed to be detoxing from pills and harry’s not supposed to be hurting like this. louis wasn’t supposed to ruin his life, or harry’s life. he didn’t plan on bringing anyone down with him, and yet they’re both here. facing each other with empty eyes, the way they always have. feeling alone, like individual lost souls. and they are.

they try to be together, to feel not so empty. to feel like something is there. and there’s something there, sometimes. and it feels good and right and real, like it’s meant to be that way. but there’s nothing right or good about this. nothing good about breaking each other’s mind down, deconstructing the other until they’re laid bare for the other one to tear to pieces.

\- 

“have you been eating?” zayn squints, counting the jutting bones across louis’ body. looking for each point where the skin pulls a bit tight, where the curves have turned to edges.

“‘course.” louis laughs, easy, simple. lies like he taught himself to do. “just stressed, s’all.”

“right.” zayn looks away for a moment, trying to re imagine an old memory, louis assumes. he turns to stare across the room and beg questions with his eyes, filling them with wonder and accusation. 

“you know, all this work is catching up. gettin’ old, i’m afraid.” louis smiles, tries to relax, counts to ten twice before breathing again.

“so how’s the harry thing?”

“good.” louis says, a beat too early. too fast, like he’s hiding something. slow down, tomlinson. stop being so anxious, stop jumping around questions.

“really?” zayn tilts his head with concern, concern that’s genuine and painful. “you don’t look good, mate.”

“thanks, bud. real sweet of you.” louis tries to joke and it doesn’t sound joking, but more miserable. 

“i’m worried about you.” he scoots closer to louis and clasps his hands together, nervous. “if he’s got you into stuff, like all that hard stuff. you gotta tell me, lou.”

louis feels like breaking. knows he could, right here. in this moment. he could break and zayn would pick up the pieces and put him together again. he’d help him and tell him it’d be okay if he really wanted it to, and he’d teach him all the ways to get over things like this. but he has to be stronger than that.

so he shakes his head and sighs, looking into zayn’s all too knowing eyes. “i’m working on it. i’ll be alright.” 

zayn runs his hands across his face and gets up, hugs louis like they’ve never hugged before. whispers something along the lines of “i love you” in his ear and stands there for what feels like hours. may have been hours, really. and louis cries into his shoulder and wants to drown in this feeling of brotherhood, of closeness. 

so he tells him. 

-

clean for four days, harry claims. no liquor . none.

he’s only doing this for louis, and louis knows that. he’s doing it to make up for something. to prove something. and louis wants to be happy for that. tries quite hard, even, to be happy for that. but he’s not. zayn must’ve said something to him, louis decides. hates himself for spilling to malik, the little tattle-tale bastard. running around meddling into his life. his oh so complicated rush of a life.

louis looks at his life as a tidal wave of antidepressants and and an uphill battle, constant pulling. and he'd thought when he made it onto the x factor he’d be happier. his mum hoped he would find refuge in being famous, desperately wanted him to find peace with that life. he wanted that, too. wanted to escape the therapy sessions and regret, find relief in being on stage and finding new friends. he thought he’d found that when he met harry. thought he’d seen the light or something of the sort, clung to him like a lost puppy and never let go.

and eventually it ruined him more than being alone would have, and that was to be expected. but this, this is different. harry turning his life around to make things easier for louis. nothing about that was normal, nothing about it was good. it felt off, like something was changing. and it was, truly. 

“i was hoping we could like, go out.” harry smiles, toothy and loose. like he’s trying to make things easy and free and louis likes it. he loves it, even. embraces it.

“like a date?” louis’ eyes widen, excitement bubbling at the surface because he would never admit it but he loves to go out. loves dinners with candles, slow sex and bubble baths.

he loves the idea, maybe, because he’s never had it. but he assumes it works the same.

“a date, yeah. dinner on the rooftop, touristy stuff. kissing in the rain, all that.” harry smiles, wrapping his hands around louis to grasp his too prominent hip bones. 

his smile falters at the feeling of sharpness, but louis pretends not to notice. he stands on his tip toes like he saw someone do in a movie once, kissing harry like it happens in books. slow, and tedious. full of something similar to love.

“so, when are we leaving?” louis pulls away with a smile, a real smile. one that proves he’s giving in to harry. 

“whenever, as soon as you’re ready.” he taps louis’ nose and kisses him again, and it’s so quiet, so closed off, that the world could combust into flames and they’d still be there in a trance, lost in each other’s mouths.

louis decides that this is what it should’ve been. if he met harry in uni, no fame or one direction of anything. just two boys not addicted to coke and pills and vodka, two boys with hopes and wants. two boys wandering through london, watching the world as it flips and turns and not having to flip and turn with it. two boys with ambition and heart bursting love for each other. that’s what it should’ve been, and that’s what it isn’t. what it’ll never have the potential to be.

-

one direction breaks up in 2021. 

they lasted exceptionally long, for a boyband of their age. the tabloids say it was a good run, that they were the lucky ones. breaking up on good terms, just needing space and time to set up family lives.

everyone admired their long lasting friendships, the paps pictures of them out together with their new families. the wives and children, all making a perfect picture for the end of such a long-lasting entity as one direction was.

liam got married to danielle in 2018 and had their first baby the year of the break-up. they named their son jordan, and he was beautiful. louis walked into the hospital room to hold him and nearly fell over, seeing one of his best friends all grown up and so happy. he was jealous, maybe, of the way he held himself together all this time. 

niall got a girl named lydia pregnant and they had a baby girl named kaydence. they got married on the first day of 2022 and it was beyond gorgeous. it was white flowers and crashing waves, all the things niall needed. the things to keep him stable. louis stood next to him as a groomsman, watching the look on his face as he embarked on the new life he’d made for himself.

zayn continued making music, making himself known on vinyls. he married a girl and divorced her, drowned himself in weed and wine, put himself together again and bought a music store. married a girl named ashton and she was from america. louis last heard they bought a house in california. and louis misses him because he was his best friend and he was the reason things stayed okay as long as they did. louis meets him in london sometimes for a guy’s day, tries to remember the days when they were big and important and amazing.

harry ran off for four years after they split. no one knew where he went, leaving with no evidence as to where he was on his way to. louis searched for what felt like forever, long after the rest of the world stopped caring. he told himself it was going to be fine, and harry would come back.

he would show up at his door with roses, or something cheesy. he’d ask him to travel the world with him and be old together, reminisce on 6 years of on/off love/hate. they’d find what they’d been missing and they’d find their way back to each other again. that was the scenario louis put inside his head. the scenario he fell asleep to each night, the same one he imagined so much it was almost real to him.

harry came back and there were lots of rumours as to where he’d been. people said he’d went on a retreat to africa and helped kids get healthy and stabilized. the people who said that were the nice ones with hopeful intent, they believed that after 15 years harry styles was still kind-hearted to the core.

others said he’d spent the time travelling, that he'd been ill. and some even said that he’d started a family and moved somewhere where no one could chase him down so they could be happy. 

louis wanted to laugh at each new newspaper, every article. because these people talked about harry like they knew him. discussed him like he was an old buddy. and the writers and reporters probably should’ve known him that well, after all the time they spent watching his every move. tracking his words like a roadmap. but they were all wrong.

louis called anne first and she said that she’d missed him. said harry had stopped by and said something about patching up some old matters, fixing things he’d broken. louis assumed he’d be first on the list and he was, and harry called him six days later.

but there were no roses. no speech about old times. it was two separate people leading separate lives, speaking with empty words and apologetic tugs at each other's heartstrings. 

as for louis, he had become weaker as years passed, let walls fall down because no one was there to make him keep them up. but to this day he was still a stick of dynamite lit at both ends. could still paint you a picture of the sky bending, spell out to you the ways the earth tilited on itself. he was standing at a great precipice, to this day, still looking thousands of feet up and standing at the edge of a cliff, all at once.

he was still a mess, caught between relapse and recovery. trying to decide if the whole thing was truly more about addiction or sanity. he kept to himself and lost his ability to manipulate like he could at 22. he was drained emotionally, even worse physically, as expected after years of being as famous as he was.

harry had talked to him with sympathy and louis didn’t like it. louis fought against it. but he didn’t place a guard up, instead leaving the doors open if harry dared to walk through.

he didn’t, of course. he hung up, said he going off to fix other things. said he’d be back at some point, said he’d come back again.

and louis let those words carve themselves into his heart, letting them stick like a hot iron brand. singe themselves into everything he was. 

he fought against the urge to relapse for a sixth time while harry was away mending relationships and more importantly, mending himself. and louis was happy for him, he really was. he was happy for all of them, happy they found themselves after all the time they’d spent acting as one person. after all the time they'd worked as one entity, always together. it was good for them to seperate and breathe and become a better version of themselves.

he was overjoyed for them all. except himself.

-

it’s january 20th and the rain is pounding almost as hard as louis’ head will be in the morning. he turns his second bottle of wine in his hands, wanting to laugh at the small amount left. the clock is ticking, echoing through this too big house he wanted to share with someone else.

he hears the rain get louder with the opening of a door and doesn’t even care if it’s a homicidal maniac, doesn’t even mind that someone is in his home. doesn’t let himself be affected as he pours another glass of red wine that cost more than most people’s monthly salary. 

he hears a deep breath and the drop of a large object, the sound of keys rattling against the marble counter.

 

“i’m home.” 

-

**Author's Note:**

> welllllll. i’ve been working on this fic since reagan was in office (or at least something close to that) and it’s finally done.
> 
> the ending wasn’t supposed to go this way. it was supposed to be sadder and more dramatic, but i couldn’t help myself. i guess it’s up to you if you want one of them to die or something post-fic. (tbh, i didnt even tell you if it was harry who showed up. coulda been bill gates, for all you know) 
> 
> i don’t know what to think of this and i really want to know your thoughts, because i love to write and i want to know if i’m any good. (probably not.) btw, i’m terrible at writing smut which is why there’s such a limited amount of it. okay? okay, i guess that’s all.
> 
> you can talk to me on tumblr if you want to talk to me and yeah (my url is lermyns) okay bye


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